Zifor

The silence around the campfire is thicker than armor crafted by the Terrians. So quiet, you can hear rustles in the undergrowth and crickets chirping. I watch the flames flicker and dance, my chin resting on my knees, feeling at ease in their depths.

“So, where next?” Horan grumbles, breaking a loaf of bread in half. He hands one half to me, and begins to gnaw on his. I take a small bite, chew twice, and swallow. The bread’s hard, and scrapes the inside of my already dry throat. Theodan’s withheld water, again.

“We find another village, and repeat what we did here.” Theodan says in his thick, gruff accent. I shiver, rubbing my arms. Horan notices, and scoffs. The soldier’s built like a polearm, lean and scrawny up to his broad shoulders that stretched wider than a ox’s horns.

“Let the boy get some shut eye,” he chuckles, hatred in his eyes, “He’ll need it.”

“We’ll all need it.” Theodan grunts, unbuckling his sword belt. He’s like a living version of a battleaxe, all muscle and rock-hard skin supported by steel bones.

Laying down on my side, I pull my legs into my chest, resting my head on my arms. The cold Ironglass of the cuffs on my wrists bites into my cheek, making me wince. The sound of cloth being dragged over metal rustles from above my head, and something heavy is draped over my body. I draw it closer, closing my eyes. Slowly lured to sleep by the crackle of the fire.

“Get up!” Something hard is shoved against my ribs. I jolt awake to see Horan standing by my shoulder, blocking the sunlight that filters through the trees. He’s gripping a spear in one hand, the dull end planted in the ground. I climb to my feet. In broad daylight, the exact amount of damage done to the village is clear. The smell of death and carnage hangs heavy in the air. Crows and the carrion eating, bird-like species of Shur’tyr flocked on the rubble, making meals of the bodies that litter the ground. I feel bile rise in my throat.

I did this.

Wrapping my arms around my midriff, I close my eyes and press my chin against my chest, longing to disappear.

“Zifor!” Jerking, I feel a hand slam into the side of my head. I hit the dirt with a thud, landing on my tailbone.

“What?” I ask Theodan, looking up to see him glaring at me.

“Get yourself together! One more village, then you’re done. Got it?” He snaps.

“Yes sir.” I say. Theodan nods, offering a hand. I take it, and he yanks me to my feet.

“Good. We’re moving on.” He turned and walked away, whistling for his mount.

Once we’re on the trail, I eavesdrop on Theodan and Horan, letting their conversation drift into my ears as I lead both their horses.

“Kill him, Theodan. I’m begging you.” Horan pleads.

“You know the answer to that question very well, I should hope.” Theodan answers.

“He ain’t natural, and you know it.”

“Just because Zifor can use magic doesn’t mean he’s abnormal.”

“To hell with that, captain.” Horan grumbles, words half lost in the collar of his shirt.

“Pardon?”

“You love the boy like your own son. That’s why yer bring him on missions and why yer brought him out here on one of yer killing sprees. One of these days that kid will have to choose between saving his neck or saving yrs. Which one do you think he’ll choose?” Horan says, neck extended like a rooster’s, eyes watching for Theodan’s response like a vulture circling a dying animal.

In honest truth, I wasn’t young enough anymore to be called a kid. I was fifteen, lithe and scrawny for my age, standing at a respectable five feet five-and-a-half inches.

Our group walks on in silence, keeping at a fast pace. Soon the jungle begins to close around us, the trunks of trees and other plants growing practically on top of each other. It gets denser and denser, and soon I’m the only person able to fit between the gaps, with very little room to spare.

I grunt, wiggling my way through a particularly tight patch of brush.

“Come on.” Horan complains from behind me. I grunt again, hard bark pressing against my back and belly.

“This would be easier if I was covered in grease.” I gasp, the backs of my hands planted on my chest, fingers splayed.

“Sweat will work just fine.” Theodan says from the rock he’s sitting on, running whetstone over his sword. I roll my eyes. Let him try.

“Oh, for the First One’s sake.” Horan stomps over.

“What are you-” I begin. Horan gives me a shove. I grit my teeth, pain flaring up from my hip. He pushes me again, the hard leather of the insides of his gloves cutting into my skin beneath my shirt. I pop free from the two trees, sprawling on the dirt on my palms and hips. I lay there for a few minutes, catching my breath. Decayed leaves litter the ground, curled up like rugs stacked on a cart.

“Hey! You dead yet?” Horan’s voice is muffled, so it sounds like he’s talking with a mouth full of mead.

“Last time I checked, he was still alive and breathing.” Theodan responds, also muffled.

“What if he somehow managed to break his neck?” Horan argues. I imagine him crossing his arms over his chest, chin tucked into his collar. I climb to my feet, pain spiking through the ribs on my right side.

“If he somehow happened to do that, then you won’t have to worry about him anymore.” Theodan says. I do a three-sixty, looking for a way out. Between two trunks, there’s a patch of dark green heart-shaped leaves, the stems brighter then the leaves. A deep snuffling sound comes from the leaves’ base, specks of gray and lavender visible. I kneel down next to the plants, taking in their heavy lavender smell.

“Smokemaries.” I nudge one with my pointer finger. It curls up into the hard flat shell on its back, the glowing tips of its antennae waving back and forth.

I grin. Randor could wipe out the Lore, but he would never have enough manpower to clear the jungle. My mother had served him, I served him. Randor had taken my life and twisted it around his fingers, grinding his heel in my neck every time I tried to break free.

“Hey, kid! You coming, or can we leave you for the Shur’tyr?”

“Coming!”

“Oh, great. He’s still alive.” Horan grumbles. I weasel my way through the Smokemary patch, stumbling out onto the trail a couple meters ahead of Theodan and Horan.

“There you are. Sure took your time, ain’t ya.” Horan comes over, cuffing me in the back of the head with a gloved hand. Flashes of memory flicker in the back of my head. Images of a tall, bearded man doing exactly what Horan just did whenever he saw me.

“Come on. We’re wasting daylight. Traveling under Anariita is a bad omen.” Theodan grunts. I blink, confused. For all the things I took Theodan for, him being afraid to travel under the coppery glare of Arkeya’s third moon hadn’t been one of them. I rubbed my wrist, shifting the metal band to a more comfortable place.

“All right, sir,” turning to the other three men, Horan waves at them. “Move yer lazy asses! You heard the captain!”

Night hits hard as a swarm of Shur’tyr, wrapping us up tight in a blanket of darkness. I can only see my feet, the soft wobble of Horan’s lantern, and the glowing purple orbs of jungle animals.

“I don’t like this.” Horan whispers, jogging a few feet to catch up with Theodan.

“You don’t like much.” Theodan says.

“Am I to suspect that yer about to tell me that ‘being afraid of the dark is childish, Horan.’” Horan says. Moonlight hits his eyes from a gap in the canopy, making his pupils narrow and harsh. A shiver runs its course up my spine, putting a chill in my bones.

“Perhaps, you just beat me to it.” There’s no emotion in Theodan’s voice, just cold metal. I glance nervously at the undergrowth, remembering what Horan had told me about Shur’tyr eating people who strayed to far into the jungle at night.

“And not just Shur’tyr, but Lore too.” He’d told me, making claws with his fingers and waving them at me. I went over what I knew about Lore in my head.

They liked to use knives and daggers as weapons. Anything bigger than a shortsword had no particle use in close quarters. They also liked slingshots, and weird, folding bows. Good climbers, skilled in the art of camouflage and moving silently. Randor’s men stood no chance against them in a Lore’s chosen battlefield, their longswords useless.

“Set camp.” Theodan halts, hands on hips.

“Perfect. Nice and marshy.” Horan’s voice drips in sarcasm like a pastry left too close to an oven.

A deep bellow pierces the dark, a cross between the Drums of Kuntri and a foghorn. Then the ground begins to shake, in a perfect beat with my heart.

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“Um, Theodan?” I eye the shadows of leaves that flutter to the ground, knocked loose from the branches above our heads.

“Yes?”

“Does the ground normally do,” I pause. Now entire tree limbs came crashing down, “that.”

“No. Something big’s coming.” Horan unslings his great-ax, twisting it so the curved blade is pointing upward, reflecting rusty moonlight. Theodan pulls something small out of one of his belt pouches.

“Here.” He tosses it at me. I catch it, frowning.

“Theodan, if we survive, I will throttle you even though you’re my commanding officer for what you’re about to do.” Horan starts backing away from us, turning his back to the jungle. I hold up what Theodan gave me: a key.

“Hurry, Zifor.” Theodan’s sword is in his hands. I fumble with the key, before bending down to work on the Ironglass manacles around my ankles. Another roar shatters the sky, much closer and louder then before.

“On second thought. Theodan, you’re a genius.” Horan says quickly.

“Horan, torch.” Opening the door of the lantern, Horan lets Theodan put a stick in. The sap that’s wrapped around one end ignites, yellow and orange flames bursting to life. A strange calmness sweeps over me, like the eye of a storm. Theodan swings his improvised light stick in an arc, setting several leaves on fire. The manacle on my left ankle comes undone, sitting open next to my foot like a chunk of fallen moon. I feel for the other one in the dark, nearly dropping the key on the marshy forest floor in the process.

A third roar echos, deep and baritone. The ground’s shaking gets faster, then stops.

Silence, only our ragged breathing. The second manacle comes undone. I stand up, working on my wrists.

“Zifor! Duck!” Theodan yells, eyes going wide. Something dark and long sails over my head, crashing into the foliage behind us. The creature brings itself up to its whole height. I gasp.

Shur’tyr.

It’s like a massive centipede, long and flat and earthy brown. A pair of dark legs jet out from each section, three sets of pincers framing its gaping mouth. Four almond shaped eyes rest on top of its head, amber gold and slit-pupiled. The Shur’tyr rears back its head, screaming, spittle flying out its mouth. Horan yells back, brandishing his ax above his head. Then the titanic centipede charges.

Pain flares up my left side in a splatter of crimson droplets. The world tilts sideways, turning brown and white.

I’m floating, dark hair bellowing around my face.

Wake, a voice says.

I groan, opening my eyes. I’m hovering in a star field, deep black with swirls of colors and bright lights. Above me sits four massive orbs of copper and brass light, slowly orbiting. Below my bare feet is Arkeya, spread out like a carpet of greens, browns, and blues.

Wake, little one.

“Who are you?” I look around. No one. I’m wearing a loose tunic that hangs off one shoulder, and baggy brown pants. Quiet winds blow, getting stronger and stronger until I’m under siege by them.

You sit in a tempest, child. The voice is deep and airy. I spin.

There’s a giant gold she-dragon standing a handful of yards away from me.

The wind ceases to blow.

She’s covered in gold scales that gleam, like each one is a piece of captured flame. Her eyes are huge, pupils as tall as I am, each eye an orb of liquid amber. Her wings, tail, and the very tips of her white talons flow out of the star field, flickering and pulsing.

“Who-” I gasp, lost for words. Six bronze horns emerge from the back of her elegant head, curling around each other.

Your life hangs on a blade’s edge. She hums. A sinking feeling wrenches my gut, like I’m falling. Then I’m standing level with her left eye, staring into its inky depths.

“You’re the First One.”

One of the many names your people call me. One I am not entirely pleased with. She says, showing ivory teeth bigger than Theodan.

“Where-what happened?” I ask, putting my fingers into the warm depths of my armpits. Another wind sweeps into me, bluffing and howling.

You are on Death’s door. Your friend sent a prayer for you. The First One says, blinking once. Her eye vanishes, then comes back, sparkling.

“I have no friends.” My voice is bitter.

And yet you are not yet dead. The she-dragon’s voice has a tint of humor to it.

“Is that why you’re here, to tell me I might die?”

I am watching you, Child. Your destiny is bigger than what even the kings of old could imagine. She’s facing me now, the tip of her snout mere inches above the top of my head.

“You never told me where I am.”

Does it matter? No. What matters is the role you were born to play. She lowers her head, gently resting the underside of her jaw on my head.

Now go, little one.

I get thrown downwards, falling. Falling into oblivion.

The first thing I notice is the crackle and popping sounds of fire. Slowly, I open my eyes. There’s nothing but a thin blanket between my body

and hard, rough bark. I try to sit up, only for a white hot dagger of pain to rip through my ribs, sending me laying on my back, teeth clenched. A larger snap, followed by the sound of someone cursing. I roll my head to the right, looking.

A silhouette of a small person is next to the fire, shaking out one hand. They’re about my age, clad in green and brown. I open my mouth to speak, and hot blood rushes in. I gag, flipping onto my stomach, hacking up blood. When I recover, the person is watching me.

“Who-who are you?” I say hoarsely, groaning.

“Someone who kept you from getting devoured by Shur’tyr.” It’s a girl’s voice, and when she gets on one knee to peer at me, I see her face.

She’s Lore.

Skin the same shade as the bright yellow daffodils in the king’s garden. Hair pulled back in a loose braid that goes all the way to her waist, a slightly darker, oranger shade of yellow than her skin. Dark green eyes, lean face, a build similar to a throwing knife. Freckles the same color as her hair are splattered all over her nose and cheeks. Her horns are fawn brown and emerge from right above her pointed ears, curving in an elegant way, the bases wrapped in strips of leather. A tail as thick as my calf emerged from where her tailbone was. It was the same color as her skin, with two pairs of leaf-shaped blades at the halfway point, and two more at the tip. Like her horns, the base and right beneath the leaf-blades was wrapped in dark leather.

“You need to eat.” She practically shoves a piece of burnt Shur’tyr meat in my face. It smells good, like warm bread and pork. I take it from her and take a bite. It’s a stampede of jungle flavors I can’t put names to. The girl chuckles, a slight smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

“What?”

“Nothing. You should see your face.” She says, uncorking a waterskin. I blink, stunned.

“Okay?” I say.

“Can you walk?” I finish the meat, examining my body. I’m bare chested, linen strips wrapped around my abdomen. The Ironglass bands are still around my wrists, like two of the biggest, most annoying bracelets on Arkeya. The girl tosses me my shirt, along with my belt, cloak, and satchel.

“Get dressed. And don’t fall off.” She goes back to tending the fire, prodding it with a long knife. I pull my shirt over my head, slipping it on. After clipping on my belt, leather satchel, and securing the clasp of the dark gray cloak at the base of my throat, I attempt to stand.

The whole world sways, bright lights flashing in my vision.

I close my eyes, waiting for the planet to stop spinning. Without having to worry about falling over, I saw why the Lore girl had told me not to fall off. We were camping on a giant stump, hundreds of feet in the air. I turn to find the girl watching me, the fire a hissing circle of ash at her feet behind her.

“Who are you?” I ask again, twisting the strap of my satchel.

“Ain’t it obvious?” She says, putting her knife into its sheath on her left hip.

“That isn’t an answer.” I say.

“No, and your name is Zifor, correct?”

“W- yes. And yours?” I stammer. How did she know my name? I’d never talked to a Lore in my life.

“Cerbera.” She says, hopping up onto a branch. Cerbera turns and offers me a hand. “Better get a move on, if we’re going to want to get there by sunrise.” I accept her hand, letting her tug me up onto the branch next to her.

“Why?”

She doesn’t answer, instead continuing to climb.

“Need a break?” Cerbera hoists herself up onto a ledge of wood and moss. She twists, offering a hand.

“Thanks.” I take it. And when she pulls me up, she practically rips my already sore shoulder out of its socket. I flop onto my back, eyes closed. I hear another flop. Opening my eyes, I turn my head to see Cerbera sitting down next to me. She sighs, rubbing her left forearm against her forehead.

“You should check your ribs.” Cerbera opens her pack, digging through it. I roll up my shirt, dreading what I might see.

The bandages are a dark red mess, completely soaked in scarlet blood. I hook two fingers under it, trying to peel it up. Fresh pain flares up. I growl, waiting for the pain to subside.

“A. Little. Help.” I gasp. Cerbera pulls out a roll of gauze. She takes her knife, sliding it under the bandages. I stifle a scream, hands curling into fists at my sides.

“If you scream, you’ll attract every Shur’tyr in a mile.” Cerbera says.

“Splendid.” I mutter.

“Shut it.”

“Fine.” I say. She smirks.

“Hold still.”

I comply, clenching my jaw to prevent any further screaming. Cerbera peels the bandages apart, revealing a shallow gash of dark pink flesh, surrounded by dried blood and inflamed red-brown skin.

“That’s-” I blink.

“Bad?” Cerbera shrugs, “You’re lucky the wound isn’t green. If it was, well, you’d be dead by now.” She hums, uncorking a wooden vial. Cerbera then upends it over my wound. Green liquid comes out, splashes my body, and evaporates, steaming. I grit my teeth, sharp pain blooming from my ribs and spreading throughout my entire body.

“What was that?”

“Disinfectant. For infection.” Cerbera says, putting the vial back. She starts to wrap my wound with a fresh bandage. Her hands are rough and calloused, but also smooth and gentle, fingers moving with a careful precision in simple, fluid motions. A shiny rope of scar tissue curls around her knuckles on her right hand, starting in the web between her thumb and forefinger, and ending on the first joint of her ring finger. I can see other, fainter scars on her arms and the farthest fringes of a tattoo on her collarbone

“Why are you helping me?” I blurt. Cerbera meets my eyes with her own dark green ones.

“Many Lore are healers as well as fighters, and your companions left you to die after the Shur’tyr attacked.” She yanks the gauze tight, sending another brief spike of pain up my ribs.

“Ow.” I whimper.

“Sorry.” Cerbera grimaces.

“Where are we going?”

“Quite the Quy’reyw, aren’t you.” She stands, closing her satchel. I blink, confused, a hundred thousand thoughts flashing through my mind at the same time.

“What?”

“It’s Loric.” She turns, hands on her hips.

“Oh.” Loric. The only word I knew-that everyone knew-was Shur’tyr. Its meaning had changed over the countless centuries, but it still meant the same thing:

Plant walker.

Bugplant.

Death.

“Come on. Anariita isn’t too kind to travelers without her blessing.” Cerbera says. She jumps onto the next tree limb, arms raised slightly for balance.

“Theodan said something like that before the Shur’tyr attacked.” Standing, I pull my shirt back down to my hips. Cerbera stays on her perch, watching.

“Seems natural for someone like him to be afraid of the third moon.” She says.

I nod, frowning. “Yeah. Horan didn’t, though.”

“A Dty’oty like him should.”

“Why?” I jump onto the branch behind her.

“Don’t ask.” There’s a dangerous edge to Cerbera’s voice, like a newly sharpened blade fresh from the forge.

“Sorry.” I know what she means. What the tone in her voice says: don’t ask, don’t pry, it’s too painful.

It’s better left unsaid.

“Tell me if it starts hurting again.” Then we’re climbing, surrounded by greens and browns and jungle colors.

“Here.” Cerbera drops to the ground in a crouch, her hands planted on the worn soil on either side of her bare feet. I hit the ground less gracefully than her, landing on my side. Pain lashes my hip. Cerbera rolls her eyes, looking at me over her shoulder.

“Could you try to make less noise?” She stands in a single fluid motion, the strap of her satchel perched on the hump of her yellow shoulder.

“I’ll try.” I push myself to my feet.

“Good.” She starts walking, her strides long and fast. I hurry after her, keeping my eyes on my feet, my world filled with the mud and grime that’s caked all over my boots. It’s part of the reason I don’t realize that Cerbera has stopped until I ram into her, my nose smashing into her spine between her shoulder blades.

“Why’d you-” I begin, back pedaling. Cerbera whips around to face me, and I see her face.

She’s on the verge of tears, the yellow skin around her eyes red and puffy.

“Look. Look what you- you filthy Dty’oty did!” She points behind her, and I gasp.

What might have once been a village sat tucked under a tree, mammoth plumes of black smoke leeching from burning huts and charcoal black timbers that crackle and pop. A garden for herbs was a bed for a blazing wildfire, the flames pale orange and dark yellow. A heavy scent of smoke, carnage, and burning plants lofted up, blown into our faces by a gentle breeze.

“I didn’t-” Cerbera doesn’t let me finish, because she slams her forearm against my neck, my back into a tree, and her other hand is raised, holding a dagger made of jagged bone to my throat.